Page 53 of My Family

We fight for at least half an hour about what we want to watch, until Harry, ever the dictator, says, "It's my theater room, I'm choosing."

"What a nice host you are," Ethan says. I'm sitting beside him on the larger leather couch, his arm around my shoulders.

"Shut up, Farley," Harry says and turns on The Godfather, which is so Harry it's almost funny. Ethan can't even complain, because it turns out that he loves this movie. I'd never seen it before, but it's brilliant, and even Jack stops fidgeting to pay attention.

Then, we start playing video games. Jack discovers a racing game and proceeds to demolish all of us. He wins twelve races in a row, then stands up and takes a bow.

"I have found my calling," he announces. "Forget tattoos. I'm going pro."

But it's the quiet moments that are the best. Harry leads us through the house on the fourth day, narrating as he goes. He stops in a small room on the second floor, empty except for a window seat and walls covered in faded pencil marks.

"My mom used to paint here," he says, and he sounds serious, for once in his life. "She'd sit right there for hours. I used to bring her tea, and she'd pretend to drink it. It was always cold by the time she remembered."

Nobody speaks.

He moves to the hallway closet, opens it, and points to a low shelf inside. "I used to hide here when they fought. I'd bring a flashlight and a book. Sometimes I'd fall asleep and the housekeeper would find me in the morning."

Ethan puts a hand on Harry's shoulder, and Harry doesn't shrug it off. He just stands there, and for a moment he looks exactly like what he is, a kid who grew up with everything except the one thing that mattered: peace.

I feel a little ridiculous for thinking this. And also moved, which is embarrassing. But I know now how much peace and love can change a life.

We go back tomorrow. And I want to die. But I can't die, or I'll never have days like this again.

It's late, and we're all in our rooms. I'm lying next to Ethan in the king-sized bed, the kind that swallows you, that makes you feel like you're floating, and it's just us, finally, with the lights off and the heavy hush of the house around us.

I curl against him, my head on his chest. He's so fucking warm.

"You awake?" I whisper.

He shifts, so I know he is. "Yeah. You?"

I laugh against his skin. "No, I'm sleep-talking."

He snorts and kisses my head.

He pulls me closer, his hands sliding down my back under the t-shirt Harry gave us. Harry keeps giving us clothes and saying we can keep them. I'll have a new wardrobe by the time we get back. Ethan's palm is so big it covers half my spine. He finds my ass, grabs it, squeezing. He knows I like that.

He kisses the top of my head, then my temple, then my mouth, slow and soft and almost sad, like he knows this is the last night for a while that we'll get to do this without alarms, without guards, without anyone watching. He kisses me until my mouth opens for him, and then he rolls, pinning me under his weight, his thigh between mine. I moan, breathless, and he swallows the sound.

I reach down, fumbling with the waistband of his shorts. He's already hard, straining against the cotton, and when I free him, he grunts, low in his throat, then bites my lip. I stroke him, slow, and his hips buck, but then he grins and pins my arms above my head with one hand, so I can't move at all.

He kisses down my neck, slow, gentle, then nips at my collarbone, my chest, the trail of his mouth setting my skin on fire. He pulls my shirt off, then goes lower, his tongue circling my nipple, then lower still, kissing down my stomach. I arch up, desperate, and he finally pulls my briefs down and takes me in his mouth.

It's so good I almost scream, but I bite my fist to keep from waking the others. He's relentless. Slow at first, then fast, then deep, his tongue swirling, his hand wrapped around the base, squeezing just right. I can't last, not with him, not when he's looking up at me like that, his green eyes dark and wild.

"Daddy, I'm gonna…!" I try to warn him, but he doesn't stop. He just hums:

"Mmm," and keeps going until I'm shaking, until I come so hard my vision whites out.

He doesn't move for a second, just breathes against my thigh, and then crawls up to kiss me, his mouth tasting like me and like him, all at once. I taste myself on his tongue, and I love it.

"My turn," I say, and flip us so I'm on top. I kiss him everywhere. I take my time. When I get to his cock, he's rock hard, leaking, and I wrap my lips around the head, swirl my tongue over the slit, and he moans so deep I feel it in my own chest.

I go slow, torture him, mouth and hand together, until he's panting, until his fingers are tangled in my hair and he's whispering my name, over and over, like a prayer. He comes with a gasp, his back arching, and I swallow, licking him clean because I know he likes it when I do that.

When he's spent, I climb back up, curl into his side, and rest my head on his shoulder. He's trembling, and I love that I can do that to him. He holds me so tight I can barely breathe, but I don't want him to let go.

We lie there, sticky and tangled, listening to the sounds of the house. I think about all the times I thought I didn't deserve this, didn't deserve him, didn't deserve anything at all.